


Drives Me Wild

by rustywrites



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eddie survived, Established Relationship, Hotel Sex, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Riding, close calls in fancy clothes, gross best friends in love, kind of, power bottom eddie kapsbrak, richie is famous, there's a little plot in here but you can ignore it if you want I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:01:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustywrites/pseuds/rustywrites
Summary: "I cannot fucking stand you," Eddie's voice is hushed, low and dangerous, each word traded between bruising, demanding kisses that would probably be a lot better if Richie weren't smiling so wide into them. Eddie's hands are on his waist, fingers curled into his pockets as he marches him -- surprisingly strong for someone who Richie has a good five inches on -- backward toward the fancy hotel bed.





	Drives Me Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Character death? In my gay horror movie??? No thank you. 
> 
> Post-Chapter 2 divergent in the sense that Eddie survives the final fight, he and Richie work their shit out and live happily ever after, obviously. This is really just an excuse to write some porn while practicing these two idiot's voices since they've got one of my all-time favorite relationship dynamics. 
> 
> I've got a much longer, much more plot-centric story in the works that will actually deal with things like how Eddie survived, how Richie came out, etc, etc, but for now, I'm just going to be really self-indulgent and get this out of my system. 
> 
> Title from Tegan and Sara's "Drove Me Wild"

"I cannot fucking stand you," Eddie's voice is hushed, low and dangerous, each word traded between bruising, demanding kisses that would probably be a lot better if Richie weren't smiling so wide into them. Eddie's hands are on his waist, fingers curled into his pockets as he marches him -- surprisingly strong for someone who Richie has a good five inches on -- backward toward the fancy hotel bed. 

"Yeah? Why don't you show m--" Richie almost gets the complete sentence out before Eddie kisses him again, hard, just in time for the back of Richie's knees to hit the edge of the mattress. The two of them topple over gracelessly, Richie's back and shoulders bouncing a little, Eddie half straddling his waist. The bedspread is as ornate and obnoxious as the suite itself, a weird paisley pattern with golds and blues that Eddie had scrunched his nose up when they'd checked in two nights ago. He definitely doesn't seem to mind it now, though. Now his eyes are laser-focused on Richie's face, glinting and mischievous, and for a split second Richie feels time fracture around them like a goddamn kaleidoscope. Here he is, that 13-year-old pain in the ass who talked too fast and always had something to complain about. Here is is, the 41-year-old with those exact same too intense eyes, except his pupils are blown huge and the angry little crease between his eyebrows has softened. He's still got plenty to complain about, most of the time, though. Richie wouldn't change that for the world, god help him. 

"I thought I told you no more jokes about how much you love my dick," Eddie says, shifting to straddle Richie's waist in earnest, rolling his hips downward just to emphasize his point, no doubt. His hands are braced on both of Richie's shoulders, pinning him back with his bodyweight, while Richie's hands are on his waist, holding him in place. It's not the most comfortable position, all things considered--Richie's knees are bent over the end of the mattress, his feet still on the floor, and they're both still in their fucking monkey suits. 

Richie had tried to make the case with his agent and his manager that he should be allowed to attend the Emmys in the same clothes he always wore (jeans, a shitty t-shirt, a semi-fashionable jacket, you know, the works.) They were good enough for his specials, one of which had earned him the nomination to begin with, but both Anna and Johnathan had pushed back hard, and when Eddie had not-so-subtly sided with them, well. Suit and tie it was. 

Both Bev and Ben had texted him during the show to tell him how nice he looked. Bill had sent him a cry-laughing emoji with a shitty photo of his TV, Richie's pixelated face on the screen. Mike had texted Eddie to say congrats and good luck to both of them, correctly assuming, unlike the rest of his jackass friends, that Richie might be too busy to check his own phone during a goddamn awards show. So really, it had all turned out pretty alright in the end. 

"Okay well, in fairness to me," Richie starts, curling up to try and lure Eddie into another kiss which Eddie, cruelly, does not allow, "it wasn't so much a joke about how much I love your dick, it was a carefully placed caveat in a thank you speech in which I told the world how much I love my boyfriend, who also happens to have a really stellar--" 

Eddie does kiss him then, finally, just to shut him up. Mission accomplished. 

They kind of get lost in it for a little while. Last year, Eddie had been--putting it generously--not a very good kisser. Richie couldn't exactly blame him. It wasn't like his ex-wife had really, uh, encouraged that sort of affection in any way shape or form. In fact, it had taken Richie a while to actually convince Eddie that kissing could be fun at all, despite the fact that, yes, okay, maybe it wasn't necessarily hygienic but--well, sex wasn't exactly supposed to be hygienic, right? Those first few weeks had been a mess of trial and error, the two of them sucker-punched by the giddy elation of secrets finally shared and the all-consuming anxiety of a new relationship, not to mention all their individual baggage. Turns out murdering a cannibalistic alien clown in the sewers beneath your childhood hometown and very nearly dying isn't something that just goes gently into that good night or whatever, and that was all on top of the literal years of completely non-clown-related repressed bullshit that both of them had. 

So yeah, trial and error, and a lot of not so great kisses that ultimately ended with Eddie sputtering and jerking way, prettily flushed pink but cringing and nervous or Richie seizing up like a deer in the goddamn headlights, blindsided by the reality of actually getting to do this thing he'd wanted to do for so long. Not exactly either of their proudest moments, to be sure. 

But now? Well, that was a much different story. Or at least Richie liked to think that it was, and judging by the extremely insistent erection Eddie was currently shamelessly grinding into Richie's hip, he liked to think that Eddie did too. 

Richie pulled back from the kiss just enough to nip at Eddie's lower lip, going slightly cross-eyed, their faces still so close together, to watch the way Eddie's tongue snuck out to chase the sensation. Fuck, he was cute. There just weren't two ways about it--Eddie fucking Kapsbrak was goddamn adorable. Beautiful, even. Sharp and handsome and pretty as a fucking picture, always had been. 

Richie told him as much, just to watch the way Eddie's flushed cheeks turned an even darker shade of red as he scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

"Fuck you, Tozier," he hissed, pushing his hands up into Richie's hair, knocking his glasses right off his nose. It was a power move, really, considering how fucking blind Richie was without them--and how much Eddie hated to let Richie see him blush like that when he was secretly flattered by something. Still, for all the aggression in his voice, Eddie was careful when he actually pulled them all the way off, setting them gently over to the side of the giant California king-sized mattress so that Richie could definitely grab them later if he wanted them. 

"God, I wish you would," Richie shot back, grinning as Eddie's hands wove back into his hair, "pretty please?"

Right now, however, there were much more pressing matters to attend to--like the fact that both of them were currently dangerously close to leaving some difficult to explain stains in the pants of their very, very fancy suits. Part of Richie kind of wanted to lean into it--just to really stick it to Anna and Jonathan for forcing him into this in the first place. But a far more rational voice in his head--one that, almost always, sounded a lot like Stan Uris--told him that would be way more trouble than it was worth. 

Getting out of the suits was, perhaps, more of a challenge than it really should have been. Neither of them were all that enthused about breaking apart and Eddie still hadn't gotten over his whole thing about not wanting clothes to be wadded up on the floor for too long. (_"There are black fucking widow spiders in California, Rich, they'll build their goddamn webs in anything."_) So that's how Richie ended up carefully hanging up his shirt, jacket, and coat with a fucking hard on that just refused to flag even for a second, much to his annoyance, because it turned out he'd developed some sort of fucked up pavlovian response to Eddie bossing him around and being neurotic and Eddie absolutely knew it. Abused it, even. 

Not that Richie really minded, most of the time--but just to be a brat, he tossed his boxer briefs carelessly onto the back of the recliner in the corner of the room. Eddie pursed his lips but, thankfully, Richie's gambit paid off--not even Eddie's bitchiest neurosis could withstand the sight of one Richard "Trashmouth" Tozier hard and naked and waiting for him. As far as ego boosters were concerned, that was one of Richie's favorites--maybe even his all time favorite, which was saying something considering he'd just won a goddamn Emmy tonight. 

Richie snatches up his glasses as they find their way onto the mattress again. They don't quite grapple with one another--it's more of an extremely uncoordinated slow grind as they sort-of-kind-of manhandle each other into a more comfortable position. Richie ends up with his back half propped up against the mound of pillows at the headboard and Eddie winds up straddling his waist again, leaning over him again with one arm bracketing the side of Richie's head and the other sneaking down between their stomachs to wrap around their cocks, where they're both leaking and pressed warm and slick against one another. 

Richie scrunches his eyes shut and hisses through his teeth, already embarrassingly keyed up because, hell, he's always embarrassingly keyed up when Eddie's touching him--that's just par for the course these days. Eddie kisses his jaw as his thumb traces around the head of Richie's dick, teasing it, feather-light, with the blunt end of his fingernail in a way that makes Richie honest-to-god whimper. He feels Eddie's smirk against his skin.

"Not so fuckin' funny now, huh?" 

With monumental effort, Richie swallows back a groan and lets his body get with the program, jerking his hips up into Eddie's hands while sliding his own down to take two handfuls of Eddie's ass, squeezing just to hear Eddie's answering hiss in return. 

Leaning up just enough to chase Eddie's lips, Richie grins and teases one long finger down the cleft of his ass. Eddie squirms, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. 

"I dunno, Eds. I think I've still got it." 

"Yeah, yeah--" Eddie reluctantly rewards him with a quick kiss, "we'll see how much you've got, asshole." 

It's regrettable, but necessary, when Eddie pulls his hand away from their dicks, shifting his weight to lean over and grab the tiny travel bag he'd surreptitiously left on the hotel nightstand. After dropping it near the pillows, he rifles through it, one-handed, for what must be nearly a minute--long enough that Richie starts to kind of giggle--and kind of hump his hips upward, just to make Eddie swat at him with his other hand and gasp under his breath. There has to be no less than four different full-sized pill bottles in there, jangling around--ibuprofen, tums, Excedrin, Tylenol--all getting in the way of the stuff Eddie's actually looking for: A small tube of lube and a condom, which he fishes out and plants, unceremoniously, on Richie's chest, the hard corners of the plastic and the foil digging into his skin just a little. 

"Well, Trashmouth. Get to fuckin' work." 

Richie beams. "Sir, yes sir." 

He takes his hands off Eddie's ass to pick up the lube in one hand and the condom in the other, setting the condom aside for a second and then, somewhat awkwardly, fumbling around behind Eddie's back to pop the cap on the tube. 

This had been another major hurdle for the two of them--if the theory of sex was unsanitary and anxiety-inducing for Eddie, the practice sure as hell was, too, and while Richie would absolutely vouch for the holy experience that was a prostate orgasm, getting Eddie over the actual physical part of inducing said orgasm wasn't easy. Honestly, Richie hadn't minded at all--he'd been perfectly ready to let it go entirely, hell, he'd been totally ready to just forgo any and all sex completely if Eddie didn't want it, and he said as much over and over back in those earlier days. But Eddie had met the challenging the same way he met every challenge, with a deep scowl, a slightly off-putting mania in his eyes, and a bull-headed determination that left Richie feeling more than a little short of breath most of the time. 

It certainly wasn't an issue now, though. 

Coating his fingers with lube behind Eddie's arched back is tricky, given how little Richie can see. He manages, and only a little slides off his hands and onto Eddie's skin. He hisses and tenses away from the cool sensation, which makes Richie snort.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry." 

Besides, the excess lube sides down his skin to the cleft of his ass, so, really, the more the merrier, Richie thinks. No waste here. He sets the lube carefully down on the bedspread to his left and slides both his hands back down to Eddie's ass, using one to squeeze at the muscle. He slides the fingers of his other hand slowly between his cheeks, teasing and gentle, putting the barest amount of pressure with his index finger against Eddie's hole, watching as he flushes and bites his lip. 

Richie's always careful with this part--more careful than he needs to be, Eddie usually tells him--but the truth is he likes to take his time. It's been over a year and some part of Richie's brain still can't believe that Eddie is real and here and allowing himself to be touched like this; that Richie gets to watch his stern face crumble to pieces this way. He refuses to take it for granted, not even for a second, even if that means taking things a little (or a lot, depending) slower than either of them actually need. 

It's a little weird at this angle, with Eddie on top of him, leaning over him, but Richie manages to curve his finger inside just the right way, brushing up against the spot in Eddie's ass that makes him gasp out a shaky breath and screw his eyes shut. It has the dual effect of making his hips jerk both toward and away from Richie's hands, which in turn pushes their cocks together against their stomachs and that makes Richie groan, too. A feedback loop. 

"C'mon," Eddie exhales, shifting back and bracing his hands against Richie's chest, affecting the angle for himself. Riche gets with the program, lets Eddie set the pace by moving his hips as Richie slides his middle finger in, in, in, scissoring them slowly and twisting his wrist. It's not that comfortable. It's amazing. Richie can't take his eyes of Eddie's goddamn face, twisted up and focused as it is. 

Adding a third finger makes Eddie bow his head forward, tensing for a second as Richie slows and takes his unoccupied hand away from his ass check to gently stroke down the knobby line of his spine. There's nothing Richie loves more on this Earth than the feeling of Eddie slowly, slowly letting go, relaxing and giving himself over like this, even if it took him a while to get there. He lets Eddie set the speed for himself, angling his fingers just right for Eddie to rock back against them as frequently and as hard as he wants, going just a little slack-jawed as he stares up at him. Within a few minutes, Eddie's really working himself on Richie's hand, spine arched so prettily, fingers tensed and biting against Richie's chest. 

When Eddie bites his lip and sighs, "fuck," soft as anything, Richie takes it as his cue. Eddie inhales sharply as he pulls his fingers away, shifting forward on his knees so that Richie can actually maneuver a little easier when he retrieves the condom packet, tears it open, and rolls it onto his dick. That's about as much as he gets to do for himself, though, because the second it's completely on, Eddie reaches behind himself and swats Richie's hands away. 

"Keep still," he's trying to sound stern, but his voice is smirking as much as his mouth is as he wraps the long fingers of one hand around Richie's cock and tilts his hips back, back, back, until the head of Richie's dick is just starting to breach him, slowly, slowly, slowly. 

Richie's pretty sure he looks ridiculous, staring up at Eddie's face, all pinched up in concentration as it is like he hung the goddamn moon. He's honestly surprised his glasses aren't fogging up like a fucking cartoon character. He watches the way Eddie's throat bobs and his lips part and his eyelashes flutter as he eases himself down onto his cock like someone might watch an actual, literal miracle.

And to think, Richie used to be terrified of this; 15-years-old and sweaty-palmed, trying desperately to pretend that he wasn't watching the other boys in ways he knew he shouldn't. Like he wasn't dreaming about his foul-mouthed, sharp-tongued best friend in ways he was sure would ruin absolutely everything. 

He's anything but terrified these days. In fact, here, with his hands clawing desperately at the bedspread beneath him and his eyes fixed up on the blissed-out face of the man he's been in love with for practically his entire life, he can't imagine ever feeling any sort of fear ever again. 

Eddie's back is bowed as his ass finally comes to rest on Richie's hips, his chin tilted back, up toward the ceiling. His arms and thighs are trembling just a little--from the strain and from the sensation, both. If someone had asked Richie eight months ago if he could have ever guessed his boyfriend's favorite position would be riding him for all he's worth, Richie would have laughed in their face. 

He's definitely not laughing now. 

Eddie starts to move, slowly, slowly, breath coming out in tiny little ha-ah-ah-ahs as he circles his hips, getting into a filthy sort of rhythm. He likes being in control, Richie knows, which is why he's fighting every impulse he has to start thrusting up in time, practically gritting his teeth with the effort. His entire world feels zoomed in and hyper-focused, caught somewhere between the tight slick heat around his dick and the elegant angles of Eddie's neck and jaw and collar bones. 

"Eds, Jesus fuck--"

By way of response, Eddie lifts up just enough and rocks back hard, punching a drawn-out moan from his own lungs and all but forcing Richie's hands to snap up from the bedspread to grip his hips. Neither of them can really help themselves at this point, worked up as they are, and it always gets like this--the slow facade of control and measured caregiving way to something more frantic and needy. Richie loves it. He loves it. 

There's sweat visibly prickling at Eddie's temples and his cock is leaking a steady trail of sticky precum down onto the dark line of wiry hair on Richie's stomach. He'll definitely be grossed out by the mess, afterward, but right now he can't be bothered to care. His closely trimmed fingernails are biting into Richie's shoulders in a way that Richie is pretty sure will leave at least a faint bruise tomorrow. He hopes it will, at least. He missed out on so much back when he was a horny teenager that getting to indulge in the sillier parts of sex like getting marked up by a partner are still novelties for him, even if admitting as much usually makes Eddie tell him to grow up. 

Eddie is working his hips in earnest now, the filthy sound of skin on skin mixing in with their shared gasps and wrung out groans and Richie knows he's supposed to stay still but he just can't fucking take it anymore. He can feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach and self-control has just never really been his thing, really--especially not when the single most handsome man he's ever known is riding his cock like it's the only thing in the world that matters. Who could blame him. 

Richie shifts his legs to bend his knees and plant his feet on the mattress, giving himself some leverage to meet Eddie's bouncing, which earns him a shocked, hot little punched out noise that sounds suspiciously like a whined version of Richie's name. Eddie's elbows finally give out and he sinks forward, giving Richie an even better look at his face, blotchy and blush stained and open-mouthed. 

The angle isn't quite as deep in this position, but Eddie doesn't seem to care. Now that his arms aren't supporting his weight quite as much, he reaches one hand down between them again to wrap around his own cock, quickly jerking himself in time with Richie's slightly less-than-elegant thrusts. 

"Fuck, Rich--ugh--_fuck_…" 

Richie feels Eddie's orgasm hit almost as much as he sees and hears it, his body tensing up, inside muscles rippling around his cock hard and fast just seconds before there's come splattering haphazardly between their chests. Eddie practically collapses forward the rest of the way, hiding his face against the crook of Richie's neck. The aftershocks hitting are him in little fluttering spasms as Richie grits his teeth and holds on to his hips for dear life. He's so hard it hurts and Eddie is so warm and close and won't be coherent enough to be bothered by the jizz on both of their stomachs for at least another ten minutes or so. 

For a second, they both just breathe, Richie trying desperately to keep himself from thrusting up into Eddie's no doubt oversensitive body and mostly succeeding, except for a few errant twitches that earn him soft little gasps and hissed out breaths against his throat. 

Finally, after a few agonizing moments, Eddie lifts himself up, looking all at once dazed and sharp, a smirk playing on his bitten lips as he looks down at Richie's face. 

"Okay, Tozier. Give it to me," he says, breathless but firm as he sits back again. It's permission enough for Richie finally, finally surrender to the impulse, using his hands on Eddie's hips and his feet on the mattress to slam up into him, chasing his own orgasm shamelessly. It doesn't take long at all. 

He's a lot louder than Eddie when he comes, an exuberant shout that doesn't even bother to hide the fact that it's mostly just Eddie's name. His eyes almost roll back in his head as Eddie, obligingly, gentles him through it with his body, rolling his hips slowly once, twice, three times before sliding off him and collapses into his side. 

They stay like that for what is probably a lot shorter than it feels in the moment, Richie trying to catch his fucking breath while Eddie watches his face with that soft mix of adoration and playfulness he usually reserves for moments where he doesn't think Richie will notice. 

Once his pulse has stopped thudding in his ears, Richie reaches down and pulls the condom off, tying it without sitting up. He's about to toss it in the general direction of the trashcan when Eddie levers himself up and stares down at his face, mouth pressed into a line. 

"I swear to god, if you just throw that filthy fucking condom across the room I will leave you right here and now." 

Richie blinks up at him, not even bothering to hide it when his face splits into a grin and he reverses the direction of his hand, half-heartedly tossing the tied-off condom towards Eddie's head which--as expected--earns him an undignified shriek and a palm to the face. 

"God! Gross!" He scrambles away just enough from the rubber that it lands on the bedspread harmlessly, several inches away from him. "You're so fucking disgusting, I can't believe I put up with you. Jesus Christ." 

Richie laughs bright and open, still too loose-limbed and come-dumb to get think of a witty come back as he props himself up on an elbow to watch Eddie's pinched and horrified face. He's going for furious, but missing by a mile. His hair all disheveled and his skin still so pleasantly flushed, and fuck, Richie loves him so much his fucking teeth hurt. He does the only thing he can do and leans in to kiss him. Eddie wrinkles his nose up and swats half-heartedly at him, but Richie can still feel him smiling despite himself when their lips come together. 

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up asshole. Clean up your fucking biohazard, I'm going to go shower," Eddie huffs, dragging himself out of bed and stretching his arms up above his head. "Order us some room service, I'm starving."

"I love you too, babe," Richie calls after him as he walks, just slightly bow-legged, towards the immaculate hotel bathroom. 

Eddie flips him off without turning around, but Richie can see his face, smiling bright and beautiful, in the mirrored closet doors. 

Before he gets up to find the room service menu, Richie sits up to find his cellphone on the nightstand. He takes a quick, carefully angled photo of the Emmy statue sitting on the coffee table on the other side of the room, right next to Eddie's stupid inhaler. The lighting is shit so when he loads it into his Instagram account, he spends a few minutes fucking around with the levels and the filters before getting something he's pretty happy with. He makes sure to tag Eddie's account just because he knows he hates it when Richie's fans come to bother him on social media. 

_I'm one lucky motherfucker_ he types for the caption, _and winning an Emmy is pretty cool too, I guess._ And hits "share."

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious, Richie's Emmy was for a Netflix stand up special he released after the events of the movie that featured his big public coming out story. His category was "Outstanding Variety Special (Pre-Recorded)," which is a real thing that comedy specials can be nominated in.
> 
> Also I started an It-centric tumblr to contain some of my absolutely feral behavior, it's [quitecowardly](https://quitecowardly.tumblr.com/) if you want to like, send prompts or whatever, I guess? I don't actually remember how tumblr works.


End file.
